We are in the season of Epiphany. Epiphany means revealing, manifestation. It is the season when light breaks open what has been hidden, when God does not remain distant or silent, but steps towards us and says, “This is who I am.”

And as Jesus is revealed, something else is revealed, too. We are invited not only to learn more about him, but to rediscover who we are in him. The Christian life is not primarily about mastering doctrines or keeping rules. At its heart, it is about identity: hearing, again and again, to whom we belong, and who claims us when the voices of the world grow loud, demanding, and confusing.

Today, Matthew takes us to a river. Jesus travels from Galilee to the River Jordan to be baptized by John. It is important to remember the world Jesus stepped into. In his time, the people of Israel lived as a colonized people under the heavy hand of the Roman Empire, burdened by crushing taxes, watched by soldiers, subjected to political violence and daily humiliation.

Jesus’ own family knew that suffering firsthand. As a child, he became a refugee, fleeing to Egypt to escape Herod’s brutal decree. As an adult, he lived under occupation, surrounded by poverty and injustice, and the constant threat of power misused.

Into this painful reality came John the Baptist, a prophetic voice crying out in the wilderness. He challenged political rulers and the religious establishment. The temple system, meant to be a place of mercy, had become corrupt, and forgiveness had become controlled and costly.

John proclaimed something radically different: God’s grace was not confined to the temple, and God’s mercy was not controlled by the powerful. Forgiveness was not a privilege to be purchased or guarded, but it flowed freely like water. People came to the river not because baptism magically created mercy, but because they already trusted that God was merciful. The water did not produce grace: it revealed it. John’s baptismal movement threatened religious authorities and imperial power. And yet, the crowds kept coming, drawn by hope, dignity, and the promise of new life.

And then Jesus comes, too. When John hesitates, Jesus answers with words that still shape our faith today: “Let it be so now; for it is proper for us in this way to fulfill all righteousness.” Here, “to fulfill all righteousness” does not mean moral perfection. In Matthew, righteousness means faithful alignment with God’s will, living into God’s way of love, justice, and mercy.

Jesus chooses baptism not because he needs cleansing, but because we do. He steps into the water to stand with the people, especially the wounded, the marginalized, the overlooked. He does not stand above them; he stands among them. In this way, Jesus’ baptism is an act of solidarity.

And then something beautiful happens. When Jesus comes up out of the water, the heavens open. The Spirit descends like a dove, and a voice speaks, not in judgment, but in love: “This is my Son, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased.”

Before Jesus preaches a sermon, before he heals the sick, before he performs a miracle, he is named Beloved. This is where Jesus’ ministry begins, not with achievement, but with belonging. Not with proving himself, but with being claimed.

And this is where ours begins too. In baptism, God speaks the same truth over us: “You are my child. You are my beloved.” This is our deepest identity – not something we earn or we achieve, but something we receive. We are loved before we become somebody and loved before we succeed.

We are loved even when we fail. We are loved in moments of joy, and just as deeply in moments of grief, confusion, and pain. That is why I hear the voice at Jesus’ baptism not as a distant story but as a living word, meant for us and for me. So let me share something personal.

It may sound strange, but I do not remember ever hearing the words “I love you” from my parents. In Korean, “I love you” is translated as sarang-hae, and for many in my and my parents’ generations, it was not an expression parents commonly used. This does not mean Koreans did not love one another. In fact, it may be because love was considered too deep, too precious, to be spoken lightly. For us, love was expressed through sacrifice, provision, discipline, and presence, not words. Emotional restraint was often considered a virtue, and saying sarang-hae aloud could feel embarrassing, unnecessary, or even inappropriate.

As far as I can remember, I never heard my mother or father say those words to me. And yet, I never doubted their love. They cherished and cared for me deeply–they simply were not used to putting it into words. That was not the way our culture taught us to speak.

My generation, shaped in part by Western influences, tends to express love more freely. Even so, while saying “I love you” in English comes easily to me, saying sarang-hae in Korean feels unexpectedly tender-almost like standing without armour.

Recently, when my eldest daughter Jenny came home for Christmas, I made a point of writing and saying, “Jenny, I love you,” in Korean more than once. Saying it in English, or even casually tossing out “luv ya,” felt easy enough. But when I said sarang-hae in Korean, something deep and unexplainable rose up in me, and my nose prickled with emotion, my eyes filled with tears.

Perhaps this is because I was raised in a culture where what is left unspoken is often considered more weighty, more precious, than what is said aloud.

So when I speak about the love of God, some may wonder how someone who never heard those words at home can speak of divine love. But I do not find it difficult at all – because God’s love is not only something we say; it is something we receive, something we sense, something that claims and names us even when human words fall short.

Didn’t Jesus know that love in his own body and spirit? When he came up out of the Jordan and heard the voice from heaven, “You are my beloved,” that moment must have been overwhelmingly powerful.

And although I did not grow up hearing words of love, I have no difficulty sensing God’s love. I have learned to recognize love in other languages: such as in presence, in faithfulness, in grace, and in belonging. This is what our baptism offers us.

Baptism marks the beginning of a new life in grace. Water touches our skin, but God touches our whole being. Baptism does not erase our struggles, but it anchors us in love that will not let us go.

That is why we renew our baptismal covenant, not because baptism fades, but because we forget. We forget who we are when the world tries to name us by our productivity, our shortcomings, or our losses.

Baptism brings us back to the truth: we belong to God. We stand with Christ, and we are held by grace. And this identity is not private; it is communal. In baptism, we are not only named beloved; we are woven into a family. No matter our differences and stories, we are made one body in Christ.

So today, as we remember Jesus’ baptism and our own, may we hear that voice again, clear and strong: “You are my beloved.” May this voice quiet fear and shame. May it steady us when life feels uncertain. May it give us courage to live with compassion, humility, and hope.

Thanks be to God, who names us beloved and calls us God’s own. Amen.